


In a Heartbeat

by withthekeyisking



Series: Dick Rare Pair Challenge [16]
Category: Batman (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Clark Kent's Midwestern Sensibilities, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gentleness, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Protective Clark Kent, Romantic Fluff, lead up to sex but no actual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:49:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27625654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Clark has seen Dick get injured many times before. It never gets any easier to deal with.At least he always gets to take care of him afterwards.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Clark Kent
Series: Dick Rare Pair Challenge [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836145
Comments: 22
Kudos: 136
Collections: Dick Grayson Fic Exchange 2020, Dick Grayson Rare Pair Challenge





	In a Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sabrina_Beckett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabrina_Beckett/gifts).



> Ask for Dick/Clark softness and fluff and you shall receive! 😊

Clark knows Dick is human.

It's an unavoidable fact. When someone punches him, he gets bruised. When someone slices him with a knife, he bleeds. When someone slams his head against a wall, he at the very least gets a concussion. And all of this heals at a slow, normal, _human_ pace.

This doesn't make Dick any less of a hero. If anything, it makes him more. He never lets any of that stop him. He doesn't have invulnerable skin or super-speed or accelerated healing, but on a daily basis he goes toe to toe with individuals who _do_ carry those abilities. He's skilled, and intelligent, and truly one of the best at what he does.

Clark reminds himself of that fact a lot. That Dick is fantastic at his job. That he doesn't need Clark or anyone else hovering over his shoulder, ready to jump into the fray at the slightest sign of trouble. He doesn't need his hand held. He can handle himself, and all the problems that he faces. And, unlike Bruce, he won't hesitate to ask for help if he decides he needs it.

But Dick is _human._ And good at his job or not, injuries still happen. He still gets hurt. And it is so damn hard for Clark to watch it happen.

 _He's going to be okay,_ is on repeat in Clark's brain as he looks down at the unconscious form of his boyfriend. _He's going to make a full recovery._

Clark listens to his heartbeat, ignoring the beeping of the monitor in favor of going straight to the source, focusing on the steady _thump, thump, thump_ in Dick's chest. His breath rattles slightly as it goes in and out of his lungs, a worrying noise, but Doctor Mid-Nite assures him that's normal at this point in time, and the oxygen mask he's wearing should help with the problem over the next few hours.

The doctor gave a rundown of all Dick's injuries, and the list is seared into his brain, probably for all eternity. He's forcing himself to not look deeper, to not use his X-ray vision in order to see everything that's wrong in Dick's body. Broken ribs, punctured lung, dislocated shoulder, broken collarbone, lacerations up and down his legs, gut wound, multiple torn ligaments in his left wrist—

"Clark."

Clark blinks, working to calm himself down again. The metal of the railing on Dick's hospital bed is crumpled under his hand, the destruction going unnoticed by him as the storm raged inside his head. He lifts his hand with a grimace, briefly debating if he should make an attempt to reshape it and then dismissing the idea, knowing it would be pointless.

Turning his head to the side, he sees Bruce. The man is holding Dick's chart in his hands, a slight furrow between his brows as he reads over the information. Clark doesn't know why; Bruce already knows each and every detail of the current state of Dick, along with probably a million other things he shouldn't be able to know but does anyway.

Maybe it makes him feel better, to have something to do. Even if that something is as small as reading Dick's chart again.

"Sorry," Clark says about the bed railing, for lack of anything better. The silence is beginning to get to him. The rattle of Dick's breathing has certainly wormed its way under his skin.

(He's going to be fine. He's going to make a full recovery. He always does. But looking at him now all Clark can see is bruises and blood and unsteady breaths—)

Bruce's eyes flick briefly towards him, but they're lacking the chastisement they usually have in the rare times Clark loses control, even in such small regards like crumpling a bedrail. No, this time there's nothing in his gaze except for a certain type of understanding. It relaxes Clark immediately.

If there's one person Clark knows this situation is hurting just as much as it's hurting him, it's Bruce.

Clark turns back to the bed, taking Dick's hand gently in his own. This contact will keep him in check; he knows there isn't a single universe where he could hurt Dick, unintentionally or not. If his mind drifts again, Dick's hand in his will ground him. Always the still point in a rather chaotic world.

Bruce walks around the bed and sits down in the chair opposite Clark. His lips are pursed as he looks at his son, concern evident even if he won't voice it. He hates watching any of his kids get hurt; always blames himself for it. Normally, Clark would step in to comfort him, to tell him he did the best he could and his kid is going to be fine, but right now he doesn't have it in him, not when he's still reminding himself of that fact over and over again.

Later, once Dick is awake and okay and on his way to a full recovery, Clark will take Bruce aside and talk to him.

For now, all they can do is wait.

* * *

Over the course of his life, Dick's been injured many times. Perils of growing up a vigilante.

So waking up to the steady beeping of a heart monitor and with the smell of antiseptic in the air—well, it's certainly familiar.

He gives himself a minute to just breathe and take stock, not forcing himself out of the grogginess lingering around his thoughts. He doesn't really remember what happened, but considering how light his body is, he figures they must've pumped him full of the good drugs, which means _woo boy,_ he must've been through the ringer.

His eyes flutter open, and he grimaces at the bright light above him, turning his face to the side to get away from it. When his vision begins to clear, he sees that there's a large red and blue shape sitting in the chair beside his bed.

A soft smile pulls up the corners of Dick's mouth, pleased as he always is whenever he wakes up to find Clark next to him, whether that's on a regular morning in his apartment or the rare serious injury.

Clark has one of Dick's hands held between his own, the hold putting Clark in an awkward position in his chair as his body is twisted to keep the grip without tugging on Dick. He's asleep, lips parted with quiet breaths, his little hair curl dropping down over his forehead. Dick has the urge to brush it back, to run his hand through Clark's hair, but that would require pulling his hand out of Clark's (which, no) or reaching over with his other arm (which, not possible at the moment).

"Dick," someone says quietly from the other side of the bed.

Dick turns his head and looks, finding Bruce sitting there, hands folded in his lap, bags under his eyes. He looks exhausted. It makes Dick wonder how long he's been unconscious.

"Have you gotten any sleep?" Dick asks, or tries to, because his dry throat chooses that moment to make itself known and he chokes on the words, beginning to cough.

Clark jerks upright suddenly, blinking rapidly, eyes wide as he looks at Dick. Dick does his best to smile at him, but the attempt fails when he can't stop coughing.

Then Clark is gone in a whoosh of air. Dick blinks, taken aback, wondering why Clark would leave as soon as Dick woke up—

But like he was never gone, Clark is there again, this time holding a plastic cup of ice chips.

The bed slowly starts to move Dick up so that Dick isn't lying flat anymore, and Dick sends Bruce a grateful look, then opening his mouth pliantly when Clark offers him an ice chip, concern bringing the older man's brows together.

The three of them remain in silence for a little while, the other men patient for Dick to get ahold of himself. When the urge to cough has faded, the melting ice soothing his throat, Dick smiles tiredly at Clark, reaching out a hand that his boyfriend immediately takes between his own once more.

"Hey," Dick greets, voice weak but still intelligible. "Fancy meeting you here."

Clark grins back at him, lopsided and overjoyed and so very _Clark,_ beautiful and kind in a way that still takes Dick's breath away to have directed at him, even eight months into their relationship.

"How are you feeling?" Clark asks. Out of the corner of his eye, Dick sees Bruce sit forward just a tad, clearly wanting to know the answer to that question as well.

"'M good," Dick answers honestly. "No pain. Got the good drugs, huh?"

Neither of them laugh like Dick's siblings would've, but that's okay. The way Bruce's shoulders relax and the way Clark's thumb brushes over his knuckles are reward enough for the age-old joke.

"What happened?" Dick asks.

Clark and Bruce share a quick look that Dick only catches because he knows them both so well. He can't interpret it right now, though. His brain hasn't turned on enough for that yet.

"You took a hit," Clark replies softly, thumb still moving in soothing patterns over Dick's skin. Concern creeps back into his eyes, eyebrows furrowing. "Got knocked off a—off a building. Hit the ground before any of us could get to you."

Ah, so Dick has guilt from them to look forward to about not saving him, that's always fun. As long as it doesn't end in Bruce trying to bench him (which he has no right to do, since Dick is twenty-eight years old and his own hero) or Clark getting extremely overprotective (sweet, but frustrating when it goes on long enough) then Dick can handle it.

And now that Clark mentions it, yeah, Dick sort of remembers. There's been a Justice League mission that brought them into Bludhaven, which meant they called on him to help and take down the baddies. It had been going pretty well—Dick enjoys working with the League, it's an interesting change of pace, especially since fighting alongside Clark is always fun—but he'd dived to cover Zatanna's six and ended up taking a blast to the chest.

He remembers flying through the air, remembers reaching for his grapple gun and coming up empty, and then—

Then a slam that took his breath away, and darkness.

Dick winces; damn, that must've been brutal to watch.

"I'm okay," Dick murmurs, offering Clark a reassuring smile. "Okay? I'm okay."

Clark's lips twist in the way they always do when he's trying to stop himself from being emotional, and nods tightly. Dick'll take it for now.

"How soon can I go home?" Dick asks next, directing his question to Bruce.

Bruce's expression pinches. If he had his way, Dick knows, Dick wouldn't be leaving this hospital bed for at least a month. "We should let Mid-Nite examine you before making any decisions."

Dick rolls his eyes. "Bruce."

Bruce's jaw works, but he concedes. "Now that you're awake—tomorrow, probably. But you're still seriously injured, Dick. I would advise against going back to your apartment by yourself."

Dick's gaze shifts back to Clark, who squeezes his hand gently. "Not gonna be a problem."

* * *

There are many (many, many) perks to having a boyfriend who can fly.

Such as the fact that Dick doesn't have to stress over the fact that his building's elevator is currently down which would mean climbing up five flights of stairs, because Clark can just fly them both to Dick's window and then simply float inside once Dick has disarmed the security system.

Clark moves around his apartment with familiarity, having been here countless times in the past eight months. He sets Dick down gently on the couch and then makes his way to the kitchen, the sounds telling Dick that the older man is setting about to make what is probably tea.

Dick, in the meantime, reaches for the remote, grunting as the action pulls on his stitches. It doesn't hurt—he's still drugged up enough to dull any aches and pains for the time being—but it does feel very strange, like his skin is moving in ways it shouldn't be.

He flips aimlessly between channels before settling on some random comedy that Dick thinks he remembers Stephanie suggesting he check out. He finds himself chuckling at the antics being depicted on screen, but soon his head is tipping back against the couch, eyelids fluttering closed as sleep tugs at him.

That's one thing he really hates about being injured, how _tired_ he feels all the time. Healing takes a lot out of you—well, if you're human—which means a lot of sleeping and resting and just lying about, which are things Dick's never been good at. He's someone who loves to move; being forced to just sit still and heal?

It certainly makes him an awful patient.

A hand settles gently on top of his head, and he pries his eyes open again, smiling lazily up at Clark. The other man smiles back, brushing his fingers through his hair in a way that makes Dick hum, pleased.

"Here," Clark says quietly, offering him a mug.

Dick takes it without question, enjoying the way the heat emanates from it, creeping into his skin. He breathes in deeply through his nose, ignoring the way his chest twinges as his lungs inflate, enjoying the familiar scent of Earl Grey tea, something he's been drinking since long before he joined the Wayne household.

"Thank you," Dick murmurs, taking a long sip. The warmth immediately spreads, relaxing some of the lingering tension in Dick's body, making him melt into the couch.

Clark sits down next to him, eyes crinkling as Dick immediately moves to cuddle against his side. Clark's arm settles around his shoulders, solid and protective, and he brushes a soft kiss to the crown of Dick's head.

Dick turns his face into Clark's chest, hiding his smile.

There was a long period of time where Dick didn't think something like this would be possible. Clark's been his friend for most of his life, been a staple of Dick's career as a hero and even a regular teen, growing up with Superman only one shout away and always willing to come help out. There was definitely a healthy dose of hero worship when he was young, but that shifted into a fantastic friendship that Dick wouldn't have traded for anything.

When he started developing feelings for Clark, he pushed them down and locked them away for quite some time. He didn't want to risk ruining the amazing friendship they had, because Dick has seen what unrequited feelings can do, and he had no interest in letting that happen to them.

But then Clark kissed him. Doped up on some alien drug that removed inhibitions, Clark kissed him and told him how he felt in front of the entire Justice League (including Bruce, which had been...awkward). From there, everything just fell into place.

Dick finds himself drifting, lulled to sleep by the comforting presence of his boyfriend beside him, feeling safe and loved and secure in a way very few can make him feel. So when Clark kisses his temple and whispers, "Go to sleep, it's okay," he doesn't resist the instruction, knowing Clark has his back, and will be there when he wakes up.

* * *

Clark is just removing the last of the pancakes from the pan when he hears Dick shuffle into the kitchen, the younger man immediately coming up behind him and leaning against his back, forehead pressing between his shoulder blades.

Clark can't help the smile that pulls at his lips, warmth spreading through him at how easily Dick molds himself to him, not shifting an inch out of place even when Clark begins to move.

"How're you feeling?" Clark asks, pouring out a glass of orange juice for Dick.

Dick makes a thoughtful, sleepy noise, and Clark's smile widens, amused. Dick might hate the fact that he's on strict orders to rest, but he's certainly tired enough for it.

"Good," Dick answers eventually, shuffling after him as Clark takes their plates into the living room to eat on the couch. "Walking doesn't really hurt anymore, so that's a win."

It really is. It's been a little over a week since Clark brought Dick home, and while he's still got a long way to go before he's back to full strength, each little bit makes Clark feel better.

Gently, Clark pulls Dick around to his front, hugging him. He fits against him so perfectly, head tucking under Clark's chin, so familiar after all this time together. In this new position, Clark can see that Dick's wearing one of his shirts, far too large on him and thus extremely adorable, not that Clark'll say that to him. Instead he just guides Dick over to the couch and helps him settle down, then flicks on the TV to find some Saturday morning cartoons.

"Bruce called to check in," Dick tells him after a little while, though Clark already knows. He didn't listen in on the conversation—he would never invade Dick's privacy like that—but he heard the phone ring, and then the greeting Dick gave.

"That's good," Clark says, offering Dick a small smile. It really is good, actually. The fact that Bruce hasn't visited multiple times this past week shows a level of control Clark didn't think the man was capable of when it comes to his kids, but he's actually been respecting Dick's boundaries this time. A few text messages and one phone call? That's practically healthy parenting.

Or maybe he just doesn't want to come over and witness Dick and Clark living domestically. That's always a possibility.

Bruce is still working on adjusting to their relationship. He's doing far better now than he was in the beginning—back then was a lot of glaring and snapped words and threats about kryptonite—but he's still adjusting. Clark can't fault him for it; he's been Bruce's best friend for going on twenty years now, and suddenly he started dating his son. That's going to take anyone a minute to process.

But Bruce has been trying, for Dick's sake and even Clark's as well. Clark is still _extremely_ aware of the amount of kryptonite Bruce possesses, but he's no longer anxious about Bruce whipping it out at the first sign of potential trouble.

"And I was thinkin'," Dick says around his bite of pancakes, "that maybe we could go out today, you know. Feeling a little stir crazy." His gaze flicks over to Clark, a crooked grin curving his lips, blue eyes shining. A look that is very hard to say no to.

Clark's brows furrow nonetheless. He doesn't know if Dick's in any state to actually _go_ anywhere. He still gets winded very easily, and the pain can hit him at any moment, not to mention the aches that never really leave. Clark doesn't want Dick to push himself, and maybe hurt himself even worse in his attempts to do something before he's ready for it.

But Dick has never appreciated being babied. Clark's managed to keep him here, safe, for seven days now; Dick was bound to want to start moving soon enough. And Clark can't really stop him.

Clark would be surprised if there was anyone in the _world_ who could stop Dick once he'd set his mind to something.

"Okay," Clark agrees cautiously, and Dick's smile widens at the easy acceptance. How many times, Clark wonders, has Bruce just flat-out replied _no_ over the years to such a request? "But let's not push it, okay? Just a short trip?"

Dick nods eagerly. "Absolutely. Short trip. After breakfast?"

Clark can't help but smile at the enthusiasm. "Yeah, okay. After breakfast."

When they've finished eating, Clark pops into the bathroom for a quick shower and then heads into the bedroom to get dressed. He finds Dick already in there, shirtless and currently pulling on a pair of jeans with a look of utmost concentration on his face.

Clark's eyes slide over his boyfriend's body, taking the opportunity to look him over. The bruises on his skin are still vivid, still make Clark's heart thud in his chest at how close they came to losing him, how much worse everything could've been if Dick hadn't been so lucky, if he'd smacked his head against the pavement instead.

But still, even with the bruises, Dick is gorgeous. Maybe even _with_ them, honestly. Clark doesn't scar, doesn't bruise. Rarely bleeds. All the fights he's been in, all the trials he's overcome—none of them will ever show up on his body.

But Dick is a piece of art, a patchwork quilt of so many years of survival. The scars and marks that decorate his skin don't define him, but they make him who he is. They show just how much he's overcome, just how much he's endured and _beaten._ Dick has his nights where his scars are a reminder of all the awful things he's been through, but most of the time they only make him stronger.

Dick looks over to him, noticing him standing in the doorway. Clark blushes, having been caught staring, and Dick grins at him, eyes bright with amusement.

"See something you like?" Dick teases, and Clark only gets even redder, which widens Dick's grin.

The younger man walks over to him, arms sliding around Clark's waist and tugging him forward. Clark allows himself to be moved, despite the fact that he's only in a towel and _really_ shouldn't be encouraging this.

"I thought you wanted to go out," Clark says as one of Dick's hands begins to climb up his back, fingers brushing lightly up his spine and leaving tingling skin behind him.

Dick hums, nodding slowly. His bare chest presses against Clark's, enough that Clark can _feel_ the beating of his heart just as clearly as he can hear it, feeling his chest lifting and falling as his healing lungs inflate and deflate, no longer rattling when Clark listens.

He's getting better, bit by bit. The relief almost overwhelms Clark every time he's reminded of that fact.

"I did," Dick agrees. His hand reaches Clark's neck, and his nails scratch over the nape of it, tugging lightly on the short hairs there. His other hand creeps back around to his front, fingers playing with the knot of Clark's towel.

"Right," Clark says, but his throat is clogged now, Dick beginning to distract him. "So we should...get dressed."

Dick looks up at him through his lashes, the bright smile still beautifully in place. "Mmm, I've been thinking, maybe you're right to be cautious. Maybe we should stay here, for a little bit longer."

Clark tries to give Dick his most unimpressed look, but the effectiveness of it is probably cut down by the way he draws in a shaky breath as Dick begins to untie the knot.

"The point is to not have you strain yourself," Clark says pointedly.

Dick laughs, eyes sparking wickedly. "Then you'll just have to do all the work, huh?"

The towel drops. Clark's ears turn red at the pleased noise Dick lets out.

"You're a menace," Clark tells him.

"Yeah," Dick agrees on a sigh, still smiling. "But c'mon, Clark; don't you want to help with the healing process? I probably should stay off my feet, not go walking around a dangerous city."

It is the lamest excuse Clark's ever heard for sex, especially since Dick was so eager to go out only half an hour ago. But he... _does_ want to keep Dick in the apartment. And if this is the way...

Well. It's not like it's a _hardship._

Dick laughs victoriously when Clark scoops him up and flies them over to the bed, spreading Dick out under him and hovering above him in the air.

Dick's expression softens. His hand strokes gently over Clark's cheek.

"I'm glad you're here," he says, voice thick with affection, and Clark can do nothing but echo the sentiment.


End file.
